


20 Questions (On our date)

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [71]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Dates, Fluff, Future Fic, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:51:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon Prompt : hiii, I was wondering if you could write a fic where ian and Mickey are on a date and they ask eacother those rly predicable "first date" questions like "what was your favourite day?" or something. I hope u get what I mean but yeah</p><p>Ian and Mickey basically play 20 questions on their date</p>
            </blockquote>





	20 Questions (On our date)

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this prompt! I hope you like it! 
> 
> For those who have asked me if I'm still taking prompts, I still have a couple to complete but don't be afraid to offer me any or even just message me for a chat! im-an-angel-y0u-ass.tumblr.com

Ian sat directly opposite to Mickey in the restaurant. The exact restaurant that Mickey usually hated going to because it was either _too_ fancy or too expensive for them. Despite his reluctance and moaning, Ian always managed to persuade him to go there every week; it was their usual date night. (Yes, after years of being together, and married, they had their own date night. Just like those couples on Modern Family.) Ian had been fidgeting ever since they got there, and through _all_ their food that never changed each time they got there. Mickey had noticed it; he just assumed Ian was cold, or excited to get back at the empty apartment where they could fuck all night and not worry about their son walking in, or screaming his lungs out to piss them off,but Ian just seemed off.

Finishing his plate of food, Mickey sips at his beer before breaking the ice that had been created by Ian's tense frame. “Seriously, What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ian doesn't register that Mickey's speaking; he's looking around the crowded restaurant, looking a little worried, or just plain intimidated. It wasn't hard when the room was filled with rich fucks with watches the price of their whole apartment. Mickey kicks at Ian's ankle, waking him from his weird trance. “ _Gallagher?”_

Spluttering on his spit, Ian's eyes flicker to his. “What?”

Mickey leans forward against the table, eyeing Ian with concern. It wasn't his medication; despite it playing up over the weeks, Ian had been on track with his disorder for a solid four years. Mickey taps Ian's hand, “What the hell is going on with you? You haven't said a single word in twenty minutes?”

Ian's face suddenly falls to guilt. He runs a hand through his hair, leg bouncing beneath the table, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Mickey goes to ask again, thinking Ian had blanked out, before Ian's eyes light up. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah, me too.” Mickey nods his head, downing the rest of his beer. “Let's go home before you conk the fuck out.”

Chuckling nervously, Ian shakes his head. “No. No. Lets stay.” He reaches into his jacket pocket that was lounged over the back of his chair, pulling out a piece of crumpled up paper that had been continuously folded. Smiling weakly, as if pleading, Ian leans against the table, gesturing to the paper. “If we are going to do dates, we should do it _properly.”_

Mickey's face scrunches in confusion, “Man, we've cleaned up good, ate with fucking utensils, _I've_ paid the bill. What's not proper about that?”

Shrugging, Ian opens the paper. He looks over to Mickey, puppy dog eyes and all. “When people go on dates they usually get to know each other, right?” Mickey only answers with an eye roll; he could of guessed that Ian would have researched into dates. Ignoring Mickey, Ian carries on, running his hand over the printed words. “Well, I was thinking that we should get to know each-other better.”

Mickey leans back, clicking his tongue. “I already know everything about you. This ain't our first date, you ass, we _have_ known each-other for nearly ten years now.”

Ian taps his finger against the questions, that he had found on google, printed on the crumpled paper. “Not everything.” Ian gives him a suggestive nod, pushing the paper over to him. Mickey shakes his head, snatching it from him and scowling towards the suggestion.

“Come _on,_ Mick.” Ian pleads, leaning in further. He honestly thought this would be fun. Google had suggested a bunch of random questions that people _should_ ask on a date with their husband; obviously, being Ian, he had to try it out. Even if Mickey didn't want to.

Mickey scoffs, chucking it back as he shook his head. “Why are you acting like we ain't actually married, man. We don't need to do this shit.”

Pouting, Ian begins to fold it up. “I thought it would be fun.” Sighing, he sips at his glass of water, trying to pull off the guilt trip. “Obviously not.”

It's obvious that Ian's playing an act; over the years that they had been together, Mickey knew that act more than anybody. Ian looks so innocent, and so damn _hurt,_ and despite the fact Mickey knows Ian's faking it, he can't resist giving in. “Fine. Lets do your shitty ass thing, but you owe me a hummer for this.”

Ian's face lights up with joy. He unfolds the paper, before winking. “Only a hummer?”

Mickey reaches over the table and takes Ian's water, humming around the rim of the glass as he sipped at it. “Someone's ambitious tonight.”

“And someone's an asshole.” Ian retorts, eyes scanning over the questions. Mickey taps his foot impatiently, glaring evils to those around him, before Ian clears his throat and excitedly throws in the first question of the date. “Right, first one. Brace yourself.”

In a heavy breath, Mickey sighs. “I don't need to prepare for shit.”

Ian kicks his shin, making him a yelp a little _too_ loud. “Stop being an ass.” With a shy smile, Ian memorises the question and shoots. “If there was a movie about your life, what _one_ song would you want on the soundtrack?”

Mickey mockingly taps his chin, humming to himself. “Straight out of Compton. N.W.A. Easy.” He slams his hand against the dinner table, scaring a couple of locals, but causing Ian to laugh out loud at Mickey's fast enthusiasm.

Raising an eyebrow, Ian snorts. “ _But_ you're not from Compton, Mick?”

The brunette shrugs, scoffing to himself at Ian's ridiculous accusation, before he flips him off proudly. “I don't give a shit, it's a good song and you know it.” Back in Mickey's earlier days, that song was the shit – even Ian couldn't deny it.

Ian surrenders his arms, laughing cockily. “Woah, woah. Watch out for Southside's new Dr Dre.” He quickly reflexes away from Mickey's swinging palm slap, and shuffles away from the table before leaning back against it.

“Fuck off, man.” Mickey tuts, defensively. Leaning back against his chair, he challenges Ian with his own question. “Fine, what would yours be? Probably some indie shit, right?” The last time Mickey had ran through Ian's music selection he could have fell aslee _p, a_ nd not in a good way.

Ian pushes a finger against his lips, giggling. “I ain't telling you.”

Opening and closing his mouth, Mickey slaps a hand against his knee. “How the hell is that fair?”

Slapping his chest with pride, Ian shrugs as if he's not mugging Mickey off. “Who's the quiz master here? Huh?” He taps his paper, nodding his head towards it as Mickey's frown deepened and deepened against his face.

Mickey drinks the rest of Ian's water, slamming it against the table. “Fine. Carry on with your bullshit.”

Clearing his throat, obviously trying to irritate Mickey, Ian rolls off the next question he sees on the list. “If you _did_ have a movie about you, what actor would you want to play you?” Now, this was a good one. Ian was totally expecting Steven Segal with no doubt at all.

Mickey's trying to hide the fact that the questions were getting worse as Ian read through them, but he remained cool. He wipes a hand at the corner of his lips, scowling before he changed the angle of his answer away from what Ian could clearly expect. “Samuel Jackson.”

Ian chokes on his spit, immensely amused. “Oh, you two look _so_ alike. I wouldn't even second guess that he's acting as you.”

Mickey kicks at Ian's ankle, trying to hide back his smile as he flipped the other man off with a mouthed _fuck you._ Adjusting himself, he replies with a snarl. “Don't tell me you wouldn't have Samuel acting as you?” Because, seriously, who the fuck _wouldn't_ have Samuel Jackson play them in a film about their lives?

Nodding, Ian smirks, “He would look pretty cool in a ginger wig.”

“Exactly. Now ask me something else.”

Ian barks out a laugh, holding a hand quickly over his mouth as the room was relatively quiet due to its usual “romantic” atmosphere, because Mickey actually sounded desperate to answer the questions that Ian had hand picked from fucking google. Licking at his lips, he hums, “Thought you didn't want to do this?”

Mickey runs a hand over his face, “Shut up, man, and ask me.”

It was more than amusing that Mickey was getting into this; probably more than Ian. Brushing it off, Ian mumbles. “Fine.” He scans the page, getting to the third question that had been suggested. He flickers his eyes over to Mickey, who looks more than tired. “If you could have named yourself, what would you have chosen?”

Like lightning, Mickey nods. “Trevor.”

Ian feels a giggle bubble in his throat, mixed with shock of the random name. “ _So_ original.”

Mickey's starting to get tired of using his middle finger, but Ian always found it easy to make him look like a fool or just plain irritate him until it nearly became cute. “I like it. Fuck, what would you pick then?”

“Owen.” Ian shrugs.

The other man scoffs from over the table, his hand resting near to Ian's. “Like that's any better.”

“Fuck _you.”_ Ian chuckles, slapping his hand across the table. Mickey's face splits into a grin, as he leaned backwards and out of Ian's reach. Ian shakes his head, warning him for later with his narrowed eyes; sex was definitely on the cards. “I like the name, sue me.”

Mickey takes a piece of bread from the centre of the table, spreading a little butter on it he chews against it as Ian scans for another question. “Uh, how about...what is your favourite thing about yourself?” Ian knew it might be a hard question to tackle, but Mickey sure looked confident.

The brunette smirks to himself, before making a gun gesture with his left hand. “Easy, man. My good aim.” He makes a _boosh_ sound with his mouth, pretending to shoot one of the waiters that had messed up their order a couple of times.

Ian tilts his head, giving him the _stop it_ eyes. He looks over to Mickey with admiration, “I can't really disagree with that. Your aim is pretty good.” Ian winks, licking at his bottom lip as he remembered how crazy it drove Mickey; especially in public.

Mickey gives off a nervous laugh, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Don't start something you can't finish, Gallagher.”

“Oh, I can finish.” Ian answers back, huskily.

It's really getting to Mickey, that was clear. The brunette was continuously adjusting his sitting position, and curiously watching around. Ian felt himself burn up with excitement, but he controlled it as his wishes were to finish these god-damn questions.

Mickey leans against his arms on the table, in a whisper, he taunts. “Then hurry the fuck up and then you can show me how good you can finish.”

Ian clears his throat, ridding of the lust and fire threatening to build in his chest. Fuck Mickey and his stupid hot voice. He rubs at his neck, trying not to catch Mickey's eyes just yet; if he did he would end up pouncing over the table. “Uh. Ah, this is a good one.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, “Of course it fucking is.”

Ignoring Mickey's sharp comment, Ian carries on with his spiel. “What is one thing that you wish you could change about yourself?” It was a tough question; Ian had over a million answers if Mickey had asked him that.

The older man groans, head in his hands. “ _Really?”_

Ian snorts, fingers fiddling with the edge of the paper. “Yes, really.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mickey mutters under his breath, looking around a little nervously at the crowded room, before he fixated his shadowed gaze over to Ian. “Fine. Definitely my height.”

Ian was expecting something like that; something that didn't involve talking about it later, or Ian trying to reassure him that he loved his insecurities and that he shouldn't worry about that. Sighing, Ian tilts his head with a shake. “You can't say that!”

Mickey laughs, “Bullshit, yes I can.” He wasn't willing to tell Ian that he hated nearly  _everything_ about himself just to get reassurance and compliments. That just wasn't him. Ian pouts, giving him the sorrowful eyes that twisted his heart every fucking time. “Don't look at me like that, man. What the fuck would you say?” 

“You seriously asking that?” Ian looks over nervously. Mickey already knew that Ian would change almost everything about himself; especially his shitty disorder. It wasn't really an answer that Mickey didn't already know. “You already know my answer, Mick.”

Mickey feels a sudden rush of guilt, “Shit, yeah. I do.” All he wants is to take that stupid disorder and beat the shit out of it, make it pay for causing Ian such pain. But, Mickey had learned to accept things more easily now; even when it got hard to control sometimes, Mickey had fallen for the lost, but level-headed Gallagher and he wouldn't change that for the world.

Ian scoots closer in his seat, brushing off his train of thought. “What was your biggest fear when you were a child?” Maybe this was a question he already knew the answer to; he felt his body burn with guilt for even bringing it up.

By surprise, Mickey felt strong enough to finally speak up about his past. Running a hand through his dark hair, he sighs, reliving the harsh memories of his father. “My dad. That fucker wouldn't let me sleep without a beating, man. I had to take them just so Mandy wouldn't.”

Ian bites his lip. He reaches over and takes Mickey's hand in his. “That's pretty brave, Mick.”

Mickey brushes his thumb over Ian's hand, shaking his head with a tut. “It's what I had to do. She's my little sister, you know.” Of course Ian knew, he usually took the hits from Frank – not only because he wasn't Franks offspring,  _but_ because he knew someone had to take it and it was definitely not going to be the others. 

Ian's eyes flicker from their hands to Mickey's hardened face. “Someone should have been there to protect you too,” he mumbles, bringing the back of Mickey's hand to his mouth and placing a soft kiss against the pale skin.

Mickey snorts, “Don't get all sappy on me now, Gallagher.” Just by one look, Mickey could guess that Ian was ultimately blaming himself for Mickey getting hurt; it was his underlying complex. Squeezing Ian's hand, Mickey gives him a weak smile. “Don't blame yourself, aright. I can fend for myself.”

That was something Ian already knew; Mickey was one of the strongest people he had ever met. It didn't rid of the guilt, or shame, that he couldn't protect him when the thunder crashed down. “Still. You shouldn't have to.”

“ _Well,”_ Mickey tries to find the right words; he wished there was someone back then who would of protected him, but he didn't need to think like that now. “It's in the past. You can protect me now.”

Ian's expression washes away the sadness and guilt, and a small smile falls against his lips. Again, he brings their hands to his lips, kissing the soft skin as a sign of his pledge to keep him safe. “Yeah,” He breathes. “I can and I will.”

Mickey mutters under his breath, “Not that I need protecting.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian kicks at his ankle. “I don't care, I'm still doing it.”

They both look at each-other for a little while; just breathing and getting lost in each-others eyes. Mickey felt it was a little corny, maybe even a tiny bit cute, but there was a resistance that stopped him from retracting his gaze.

Ian coughs lightly, before nodding towards his list of questions. He nearly chokes when he asks, “What is your biggest fear now?” He assumes it will be something ridiculous; like a spider, or snakes, or those china dolls that Mickey mysteriously avoids talking about every time Svetlana suggested buying them.

Mickey huffs, his eyes slightly sickened with fear. “Loosing you.”

It's only a whisper, but Ian hears every single second of it. His words get caught up in his throat, his heart pumping at a hundred miles per hour. “Really?” He asks, his voice quiet.

The older man nods, his eyes avoiding looking towards Ian; as if he was embarrassed about his confession, or just straight bashful. Mickey laughs, a little nervously, “Did you see what I was like when we broke up? I nearly fucking died.”

That wasn't a lie; Ian remembered the day he had realised he had lost the only thing in his life that loved him for who he was no matter what. He had ran down towards the Milkovich home and pounded that door with his fist until it nearly fell at the hinges. He remembers bursting through and finding Mickey sprawled out against the couch with a bottle of Jacks and an empty bottle of pills. It would haunt his heart forever.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ian nods. “I know. But I thought it would have been like spiders or something?” He doesn't bring up the china doll issue; purely for the fact that Mickey would totally avoid any means of the conversation.

Mickey shakes his head, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. “Nah, you beat them eight legged fucks every time.”

Ian feels his heart warm. “Aw, you're so sweet, Mick.”

The brunette's face broadens to a scowl, his frown deepening. “Fuck off. I ain't sweet.” Ian laughs harder, freehand resting at his chest as he tried to regain steady breathing. Mickey grunts under his breath, his own laugh nearly bursting through but he kept it undergo. “Shut up.”

Ian shakes his head, tears nearly pricking at the corner of his eyes from laughing to hard. When Mickey has enough, he reaches over the table and snatches the questions from Ian's view. “Give me that.” He demands, looking back and forth from Ian and the paper, before deciding that maybe he should get to know Ian a little better.

“ _Ah”_ Mickey clicks his fingers, nodding his head suggestively. “Besides our wedding day, and the day that Yevgeny was born, what is your all-time favourite day?” The older man even threatens a giggle, because he was merely predicting Ian would say; _the day we met_ or _when I realised I was in love with you._

Ian huffs out at the broad question, running a hand through his red hair. He clicks his tongue before answering, “Urm, when Lip got into college.” He looks over to Mickey; he could already sense that he felt a little different about the answer. “I mean, yeah, I was pissed because he was getting all of his dreams and I was absolutely fucking no where.”

Mickey goes to cut in but Ian places out a firm hand to stop him. “ _But,_ to see someone in our family actually do something good for themselves, it's the best feeling in the world.”

Nodding, understanding that Ian _still_ prioritised others above him, Mickey hums humourlessly. “So, not the day you met me then?”

Ian couldn't help but bark out a laugh. “Mickey, you tried to bash my head in with a baseball bat. It's not what I would call the happiest day of my life.”

Mickey bites back his smile. He still feels guilty for that day. “You're right there, man.”

Ian squeezes Mickey's hand, giving him the look of _its okay, now._ Ian would never hold a grudge because of that day; it was the day that life had finally picked for them to meet; even if it did mean near death in the hands of a local thug. “But it comes pretty close.”

The older man grows quiet for a minute, his words clogged at the back of his throat. At that point, he realised that Ian didn't live in the past, holding grudges to bring out for arguments, he lived in the _now;_ now being their semi-normal life and barely normal family. He wanted to reach over the table and kiss the living shit out of Ian.

Clearing his throat, he goes to the next random question. “If we won the lottery what would you do with the money?”

Ian taps at his chin, looking around the room for some sort of inspiration. He could say to move out of town; move over to somewhere hot and luxurious. That was just not going to happen. Ian loved living where they were _way_ too much, and it wasn't rocket science to know that Mickey did too. Then the idea pops into his head. “I would buy us a new house. A big one.”

Mickey almost snorts, “White picket fence and all that shit?”

Immediately Ian shakes his head. “No, fuck that.” Despite being the most _romantic_ and _domestic_ of the two, Ian hated the idea of a modern, cheesy-ass, family home with white fences, clean cut grass, kids running around in fucking _sweaters._ He raises his brow, playfully, “I mean, unless you want that?”

The brunette dashes to slap at Ian's bicep, his teeth grinding as they tried to pull back his smile. Ian was such a little shit; still the same over the years, and Mickey nor wished or hoped it would change. “Fuck off, we ain't getting that shit.”

Ian nods, smiling. “Good, because we're not getting it.” _Now they were starting to sound like a married couple._

Scanning the paper, nearly loosing track, Mickey finds the next question. “What would you do tomorrow if you lost your job and money and we have to start over?” He shifts in his seat, his ass starting to grow numb, and his appetite starting to come back; _but not that type of appetite._

“Easy.” Ian shrugs. “I'd work my ass off to find a new job.”

Mickey didn't really need the answer to know what Ian would do. That kid had the work ethic of a champion; at one point, even with his condition, he had worked three jobs just so they could pay the medical bill from Yevgeny's broken arm. Humming, Mickey adds, “I would probably do some deals.”

Ian giggles, “You do that now, Mick.”

As expected, Mickey denies, “I fucking don't.”

It had always been hard to lie to Ian, sometimes he would read Mickey like an open book and no one would understand how, and right now Ian _knew_ Mickey was trying to cover for his secret deals that he still did now and again. “Don't lie, Mick, I found your stash.”

Mickey leans against his elbow on the table, tilting his head with a cheeky grin. “You didn't just assume that was just for us?”

They hardly did drugs any-more; only on rare occasions, very rare, that they would smoke a little pot whenever they had a free weekend together; but they especially didn't do cocaine or anything as hard as that. Ian scoffs loudly, sarcasm radiating from his words. “Oh, _yeah._ We casually do crack whenever Yevgeny goes to 'Lana's at the weekend.”

Mickey bows his head in shame. Fuck. He lifts it slowly, eyes locking with Ian's as the redhead rose his eyebrows as high as they could. Suggesting, he winks, “We could, you know?”

Ian snorts. “No, just no, Mick. Forget it.”

The last time they did drugs together it ended _badly;_ like getting arrested and put in a cell over night _bad._

“Your loss.” Mickey sighs, forgetting his suggestion almost completely. Maybe he could try next week, or probably in a month or so. He slides his free hand over the crumpled paper, before rolling his eyes at the obvious question. “When you were a kid, with your alien head and all that shit, who was your biggest hero?”

Ian leans back against his chair, racking his mind for an answer. He had many heroes growing up; Fiona – she had been there every minute of the day, looking after them, paying the bills, doing everything she could to fork out for them. Sometimes Ian even classed Monica as a hero, but only then he hadn't realised that she only came back for a home, or some sense of normality before she ran off again.

He runs a hand through his hair, “Lip. I thought he was _the_ shit back then.”

Mickey scoffs to himself, “Now he's just an asshole.”

Ian couldn't really argue with that. Sure, he loved his brother, but Lip still was an ass, with an even bigger mouth that didn't mind speaking out wrongly. “You ain't wrong there.”

Shrugging, Mickey slaps his hand against the paper. “Which brings us to our next question...” Somehow, Mickey was actually starting to enjoy it; there were things Ian were telling him that he had never thought to even ask about. The next question was one of them. “Who is your biggest hero today?”

Making an _ah_ sound, Ian leans back against the table, elbows resting against the cloth. He laughs to himself, “Leonardo Di Caprio.” Mickey makes a disgusted face, a little disappointed with Ian's random answer. Ian waves his hand out, “Nah, just kidding. I have two.”

Mickey narrows his eyes, tapping a finger against the paper. “I'm sure it says one here.”

“Fuck the rules,” Ian puts his arms out wide and shrugs. He's surprised people hadn't complained about them yet; cursing wasn't exactly the _subtle_ atmosphere. Ian gives off a shy smile, “You and Yev are my heroes.”

The older man's eyebrows shoot up, a little breathless. “Is that so?”

Ian nods, his smile growing wide at the thought of his little family unit; the family that kept him on his feet even when his mind kicked him down into the pit of darkness. “Yeah. You guys save me every single day. I couldn't ask for anyone better.”

Mickey feels tears prick in the corner of his eyes, his heart pounding like a bomb exploding in his chest. Ian could be a real sentimental prick sometimes. He rubs at his eyes, trying to block anything that threatened to break out. “Don't make me tweak like a bitch, man.”

His grin still wide, Ian reaches across the table. He giggles, making Mickey's heart twist and knot all over again. “You're crying not me.” He squeezes Mickey's fingers before pulling the paper across the table and infront of him.

Ian scoots his chair further into the table, “Right, my turn.” He looks over to Mickey, just to make sure, and feels his chest warm in the sight of the other man nearly on the verge of tears. Instead, he pulls out the next question from the paper. “What is your greatest regret?”

_Shit._ Mickey thought. He had many regrets in his life; some that he didn't want to recall, some that he felt  _too_ ashamed to talk about. There was one in particular that he still hadn't gotten over, or forgiven himself for, that both he and Ian had in the back of their minds. “Breaking your heart.” 

Ian's face shoots up, his eyes locking with Mickey's. “Mick, you didn't-”

Mickey cuts in, almost immediately, shaking his head. “Don't bullshit, Ian. I did it more than once.”

Ian could agree; there were a couple of times that he felt his heart shatter to pieces, where his whole world felt meaningless because the only person that his heart beat for wanted nothing to do with him. However, he knew it had been reciprocated and it still struck deep. “I broke yours too.”

Despite the quiet atmosphere, Mickey doesn't resist to slightly raise his voice. Shaking his head, a little too fast, he refuses Ian's confession. “That's not the fucking point, Ian.” Most of the time, Mickey believed he had forgiven Ian, and he knew it now that he did. The hardest thing to do was forgive himself; for making Ian believe that he didn't deserve anything.

Mickey intertwines their fingers, looking over with a smile filled with hope. “Guess we sorted it out in the end though, right?”

Ian's face softened, his lips slightly parted. He looks around the room; he would of never guessed nearly ten years back that this is where he would be, nor would he of guessed Mickey would be sat directly opposite, holding his hand, being on some stupid date. A smile falls against his lips, his face starting to hurt. “I guess we did.”

For some reason, Mickey felt thankful for the stupid questions. They sat, looking at each-other, smiling like idiots, even when the waiter came over and offered them dessert. It was corny, yet again, but they couldn't pull away. Not yet.

Ian clears his throat, laughing a little. It's almost contagious because he hears Mickey chuckling from across the small table. There was only a small number of questions left and he was ready to finish it. “What is one thing you'd like to accomplish by this time next year?”

Mickey huffs out a breath, “Stopping you from being a fucking sap.”

Using his freehand, Ian slaps Mickey's arm before he sits himself down against his chair. A couple of people look over and Ian really tries to stop Mickey from glaring. “Ay! I ain't that bad.”

Mickey frowns, waving his hand over to the crumpled piece of paper. “Man, we are reading questions from fucking google on our date? We couldn't get anymore romantic comedy.”

Ian just shrugs, amused. “It's fun.”

Groaning in his hand, Mickey sighs. “It's bullshit, that's what it is.”

It didn't effect Ian at all, which wasn't unusual, and he just makes a satisfied sigh, irritating Mickey further because Ian  _knew_ that Mickey was just acting annoyed. Rolling his eyes, he mutters, “Shut up.” 

Mickey flips him off, his leg bouncing as he waited for the next question to barrel through. It felt a little like an interrogation but with a  _hot_ detective sat across from him and his hands free from handcuffs. It wasn't  _that_ bad. 

Ian kisses their hands before releasing his grip and rubbing his palms together. “If you won a free vacation to any place, where would you go?”  _What a predicable question._

The brunette gives a playful smile, mischief washing over his body. “I'd go to the moon.”

At first, Ian thought he was hearing things; Mickey looked  _so fucking good_ in his button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Ian felt himself nearly buckle into a daydream. When he realises that Mickey actually said  _the fucking moon_ he burst into a wild form of giggles. “Good luck with that.”

Mickey puts up a finger, “Don't let your dreams be dreams.”

Ian swears that sounds familiar. “You know, I don't think quoting Shia Labeouf is going to help you get there.” Hopefully not, Ian wanted to be with Mickey as long as possible. Not even the moon could get in the way of that.

Looking a little downgraded, Mickey blows out air from his lungs. “You never know.”

Ian ignores Mickey's enthusiasm to go to the moon, and asks, “What was your first nickname?” He's pretty sure that Mickey had always been his nickname but he's excited to hear whether or not Mickey had some adorable name like  _sweetpea_ or  _little muffin._

Mickey crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly confident. “Big dick Mick.”

“Oh _Yeah,”_ Ian plays along, rolling his eyes. “Is that because you're an utter dickhead?” 

Growing a little tired of the gesture, Mickey uses the last of his strength to put his middle finger up. The whole dating thing was tiring, even after doing it for the past four years. “You know why.”

Ian tuts, frowning as he pretended to be in thought. “Um, I don't think I do.”

Mickey clenches his fists against the table, not in anger but in frustration that he couldn't prove his point and just straddle Ian against the chair. “I swear to god, I'm kicking your ass later.”

The dark shadow of sudden lust covers Ian's eyes, his pants growing a little tight. He controls his breathing for a second, licking at his lips as his spit starts to build. “I look forward to it.” 

They both adjust awkwardly in their seats, an itching feeling flooding through their bodies as the temptation of just fucking against the table thrived through. Distracting himself from the sight of Mickey's plump, waiting lips, Ian coughs into his hand before reading off the next question. “What is your earliest childhood memory?”

Mickey rubs at the back of his neck, sidetracking through the trauma of his father throughout his childhood, trying to find his first ever memory. It was hard, of course, but he remembers one day; the day he realised that the man he looked up too was nothing but a monster. “Iggy broke his wrist once. We all thought it was from a fight with a dealer or that he'd fallen from his dumbass bike. Soon after, we realised that my dad fucked up his wrist after he'd tried to take his beer or some shit.” He remembers it pretty vividly, to the point where he had found Iggy and his bone nearly popping out of his skin.

Ian's mouth drops open, “Holy shit, Mick.”

Mickey just shrugs. “Like I said, It's all in the past.” Ian hates that. He hates that Mickey just talks about it like its normal, that he deserved to be treated like an animal by his own father. There was nothing he could, really, all he could do was promise that Mickey would never feel like that again.

This time, Mickey clears his throat, trying to brush past the awkward silence that fled over them. Ian finally breathes out, taking the paper back before him. He scans the next question, smiling a little at the change of heart. “What was the moment when you laughed harder than you've ever laughed?”

Mickey's face turns into a grin, his mind reliving the memory. “When you fell off that roof.”

Ian feels himself giggle in both amusement and embarrassment over the memory; he and Mickey had consumed a fair amount of alcohol, almost two bottles of Vodka to be exact, and they had decided, with Mickey's bright fucking ideas, that they would lay on top of the roof. They had climbed up high and just seconds after laying next to each-other, telling jokes, glancing at each-other sneakily, Ian had fallen right off the edge, his body tumbling into a small patch of grass that had grown weirdly.

Ian winces at the thought, “That was not funny, Mick! I nearly broke my leg!”

Mickey nods his head once, finger pointing. “But you didn't.”

_Fuck you,_ Ian mouths, his expression nothing but bashful. 

Mickey finds it cute, adorable actually, that Ian went red every time he brought it up. That was an unusual thought for Mickey, but Ian always made it possible not matter what face he pulled. Mickey giggles to himself, slightly in victory than anything else, “It's still funny.”

Ian kicks at his shin underneath the table, making him yelp in pain. “And you're still an ass.”

Smirking, Mickey purposely bites at his lip. “You love my ass, so deal with it, Bitch.” He knows he won that one because Ian had proved  _many_ times that he loved Mickey's ass. He grabs the paper from Ian's grip, “ _So,_ Gallagher,” He plays mockingly, “What's a new hobby that you'd like to try out?” 

Ian shakes his head at Mickey's poor attempt at humour. He taps his chin, “I want to...learn how to play the guitar.” It had been on his mind for a while now; Ian just never had the guts to even start learning how to.

Mickey's face scrunches into a mix of amusement and confusion, “You serious?”

Leaning against the table, Ian feels himself forming words to explain his underlying desire. “Yeah, I mean, I haven't got one bone of musical talent in the whole of my body, but fuck it, right?”

Rethinking it, Mickey finally realises that he had an unknown fetish of a naked Gallagher playing a guitar; it made his pants tight, tighter than they had been already. Fuck. He feels himself grow shy, for some strange reason, as if they were really on their first date. “You _would_ look pretty fucking hot playing one of those things.”

Ian hums, licking at his lips teasingly. “Exactly. It's a win win situation. We could even do a duet.” As soon as he suggested it he regretted it.

Mickey looks nothing but disgusted at the suggestion. “Fuck off, man, I ain't singing shit.”

Pouting, Ian gives him puppy dog eyes. (Mickey was already done for.) “Not even with _me?”_

“Nope.”

“Okay, Okay.” Ian surrenders his hands, nearly knocking out the speeding waiter that flew by with a stack of plates in his hands. He giggles to himself, a little embarrassed, before giving Mickey another idea that probably wouldn't go well. “You can play the triangle, then.”

Offended, Mickey stands up from his chair – making the worst sound in the world – and slaps a hand harshly against the top of Ian's head. “I swear to fucking-”

Ian can't stop laughing. He finds Mickey's glaring and daggering eyes way too amusing to handle. He places a hand out, grabbing one of Mickey's wrists as his giggles failed to dim. Mickey tries to tug his hand out but Ian keeps his hold. “Calm down, tough guy, save it for later.”

Mickey gives in, finally, and sits himself back down, trying to look as subtle as possible after the loud scraping of his chair moments earlier. Ian taps the paper that's in-front of Mickey, “Focus.”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey scans the paper for the last question. “Right, fine.” He re-reads the question a couple of times, thinking of his own answer, before asking, “Besides marrying me, because that was obviously fucking amazing, what's the best thing you've ever done?”

Ian snorts before thinking quietly to himself. He didn't want to be too _corny_ but he couldn't help but smile at his own answer before he had even confessed to it. “ _Well...”_ he drags out. “Getting the gun back.” 

Mickey nods to himself, “I could of guessed you would say some shit like that.” 

“I'm being serious, Mick.” Ian sounds pleading, his hands resting against the table. He seems a little nervous and Mickey was trying to resist pulling him over to his side of the table. Ian smiles to himself, fiddling with his fingers. “If I didn't we wouldn't of fucked, never fall in love. Never be _here,_ like this,” He waves a hand between them, nodding around the place. “It happened for a reason.” 

Mickey feels his heart pound furiously; it did happen for a reason. All of it did. All of the heartbreak, the hurt, the fist fights, it all happened so they could get here. Together. He didn't really realise that till now. “Well, you know what, Gallagher?” 

Ian looks up, his eyes glazed. “What?” 

“I'm fucking glad I gave you the gun back and didn't kick the living shit out of you.” Mickey smiles, remembering the day that Ian had barged through with fury and immense courage. It was a moment that everything changed. 

Ian snorts, “I'm glad you did too. I can't fuck you good with broken kneecaps.”

Mickey just smiles. That's it. Its enough to show Ian that he means it, that he's glad that everything worked out as it did, even with the complications that came with it. Ian couldn't help but smile too – he didn't understand that a couple of questions could bring out the love that they had felt for some many years, but he was really starting to thank God that google was invented and someone actually thought of suggesting them to the internet. 

Reaching over, Mickey clasps Ian's hand with his. “Let's get out of here.” 

Ian brushes the pad of his thumb across Mickey's hand, his smile unmoving. “So you can break my kneecaps, following old times?” he jokes, trying not to kiss Mickey in that second in-front of a whole room of eating couples. 

Mickey stands up, pulling Ian up with him. He reaches over the table and cups the back of Ian's neck, bringing his face forward as he lips captured his. They kiss for a couple of seconds, their tongues dancing together, their small moans escaping. They break away before they commit any crimes of indecency. Ian lets out a breath, “Yeah, let's get out of here.” 

 


End file.
